


it's not the size that counts (it's the way you use it)

by Mizzy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Jokes, Condoms, Crack, Dirty Talk, Episode Tag, Episode: s03e02 Chaos Rising, Gen, Innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda for Season 3's "Chaos Rising". SPOILERS.</p><p>Stiles is expecting jokes on his behalf after the embarrassing incident in class.<br/>He's definitely not expecting what does happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's not the size that counts (it's the way you use it)

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:  
> Many, many different words for penis used.  
> At least one moment of a teacher (or more than one teacher) saying inappropriate things to (at, in Finstock's case) a student.  
> Crack. Crack, crack, crack.  
> (Let me know if I missed a warning!)

It's not often a joke gets dropped in High School. Just look at Greenberg, the joke that keeps on giving. But Stiles has been hoping his little (well, XXL) incident in Economics might remain a lone occurrence.

It isn't as if his hopes are _impossibly_ huge (like Finstock somehow believes of his dick, apparently); Finstock is a teacher, and everyone knows that the sense of humor teachers possess is a) cruel, b) unusual and c) entirely un-funny. It's a dud joke, and it should sink to the, uh. Bottom.

Yeah, who's Stiles kidding. He's going to be the butt (yep) of all the jokes for the rest of the week.

Which is probably why when he lopes into the changing room for gym, and Mr. Holloway hauls him back out by the scruff of his neck and throws him into one of the Seniors-only solo changing rooms, Stiles thinks that's what it is. A joke. Some candid camera thing, or a set-up for a prank, or something _worse._ But Holloway throws the key to the solo changing room at his head, and tells him to bring it up with Finstock if he has a problem.

Stiles knows how to change clothes without losing any dignity (well, it's a method that works if he can keep control of his limbs for a few minutes in a row, but it's a method that's _necessary_ when "hey, random werewolf sneaking silently into my bedroom through the window without knocking" is a thing that happens a lot in his life ) so he struggles into his gym kit, fully expecting someone to jump out with a camera, or for something to drop onto his head, or a teacher to jump out of a locker with a pop quiz.

It's nice, actually, Stiles thinks as he joins the rest of his class in the gym, that for once his mental ideas of a surprise isn't blood or gore or something that goes bump in the night.

Nothing weird happens in gym. Well, Stiles falls on his face three times, and two of those times are when he's lurking by the edge of the hall waiting for his turn to try the indoor high jump, but that's not weird at all. It's just normal practice. And sure, there's a lot of girls pointing in his direction at his crotch and giggling, but yeah, that's sadly normal too.

Nothing weird until he tries to lurk through and join the regular changing room, and Holloway bodily throws him back to the single changing rooms.

Yeah, something weird is going on for _sure._ Scott just throws him a shrug, which is a giant load of no good at all. Stiles showers in the private cubicle, aggressively scrubbing his skin down like it's done him personal harm, and dresses in a mood before stomping all the way to the Econ classroom and slamming the door open.

It creaks closed behind him.

Finstock's still there at the desk, even though it's five minutes past the bell and it's after last period, and he grins at Stiles and gives him two thumbs up. "Come to thank me for the en suite, Stilinski? No charge. Not for one of my A plus players."

"No," Stiles says, tilting his chin defiantly. He's been working on his _facing down danger_ expressions. This one seems to be as effective on Finstock as it is on the myriad werewolves in Stiles' life.

Yep. Like using a Fire-move on a Water Pokémon, it's not very effective at all.

Finstock eyeballs him.

"I mean yes," Stiles says, "yes, thank you, the private suite. Lovely. Uh. Why _am_ I being given Senior privileges?"

"Well," Finstock says, cagily, "your performance in class has been, of late, seminal, and, uh—"

Stiles doesn't have to be a werewolf to catch Finstock in the lie. "Bullshit." Finstock scowls. "I meant, that's incorrect, why would I swear in front of a teacher? Nope. That doesn't sound like me at all." Stiles beams. It's entirely faked to cover the fretting. Oh, god. Finstock is planning to kill him. Yep, that's what Stiles needs in his life, one more person delighting over mental visuals of his throat, slit apart and bleeding.

Finstock sighs. "Most of the team is in your gym class," he says, and he can't quite meet Stiles' eyes. "And lacrosse players, _athletes..._ " He looks up then, boring his gaze into Stiles' face. "We're sensitive souls at heart. Our egos are fragile. It can take the littlest—or in your case, the largest—thing to set them off-balance and screw up their game for the whole season."

"I don't understand."

Finstock fidgets. "Dammit, kid. You're hung like a _horse_. A horse on crazy penis-enhancing steroids. Of course, I'm aware steroids can shrink a man's junk, _believe_ me, I'm aware, my Uncle Norris, phew, shoulders like an outhouse, dick like a shriveled prune—"

"I feel like I'm too young for this conversation," Stiles says, backing up.

"At least promise me you'll use the solo changing room," Finstock yells at him, eyes bugging out. "The last thing I need is for my players to be moping around about their tiny dicks because of your humongous wang."

"I'm leaving the classroom now," Stiles yells back, "and pretending this conversation never happened."

"Probably best for your mental health," Finstock shouts through the door. "And mine!"

"Believe me," Stiles mutters to himself, sinking against the wall and shaking his head, " _nothing_ will help your mental health."

"Yeah," a _way_ too familiar voice says. Stiles looks up into the face of his very bemused looking dad. "I'm starting to think that too."

"Dad," Stiles says, and briefly panics, because _what if Dad overheard that conversation._ "What, uh, what are you doing here?"

"The Principal called me in," Dad says, and folds his arms, shifting uncomfortably. "Do you have any idea why that might be?"

Stiles thinks about several things. Like the library being a mess. And the sword that Gerard Argent left behind. And the werewolf training he sometimes runs on the lacrosse pitch.

"The fact that you even pause isn't exactly showing you in the best light," Dad advises him.

Stiles shuffles, awkwardly. "Well, it's because I think I've been following the rules 100% of the time! And I'm racking my brain to a—"

"Save the lie for the courts," Dad says. Stiles' eyes widen. "Not for right now. For your apparently inevitable future of miscreant misdoings, if the number of times I've been called in by this school office is any indicator."

"Hey, I'm completely innocent," Stiles says, instantly. The lie isn't fooling anyone.

Dad sighs. "Apparently there's been a spate of graffiti in the girls' room."

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. "I'm entirely, _definitely_ innocent. I've never been in the girls' room. Scout's honor, I'll swear on a bible, _never_."

"Principal Howard says it's not your handiwork. But, uh, he said you're the subject of it," Dad says. He shuffles again, awkwardly. "Here he is now."

"Sheriff Stilinski," the Principal says. One of the newer janitors flanks him, holding a bucket and scowling rather definitely at Stiles. Stiles winces. "And Mr. Stilinski." The Principal _really_ doesn't look happy.

"Principal Howard," Stiles says, weakly, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "How are you doing, sir?"

"Better than before I saw the girls' artwork all over their rest room," the Principal grits out, eyeballing Stiles like it's _all his fault._

Stiles tries to escape, but Dad grabs him by the nape of his neck and hauls him along the corridor over to the girls' room, the Principal leading the way, and when they get inside—Stiles wincing like being in the girls' room might turn him into a pillar of ash—he sees _exactly_ why he's being glared at by the janitor.

Because there's graffiti all over the walls, and the stall doors. And in lipstick on the mirrors. It's in different handwriting, and different colors. Not one girl's work at all.

And the words...

Stiles' face goes red.

"Stiles," Dad says, in his best cop voice, "do you have _any_ idea why they might be writing this sort of thing about you? Any good guess as to why they might _think_..." He gestures at the text.

_STILES STILINSKI HAS A BIG DICK._

"I have absolutely no idea," Stiles baldly lies. And then he follows it up with the exact truth, the best way to get away with lying. "I've not dropped my pants in public since I was three. I swear. I had no idea my inch-age wasn't entirely average, it's not like I go around talking about my dick to anyone. Well, maybe sometimes to Scott, and once I accidentally told the coach about how many times I'd beat off, and—"

"I think that's enough," Dad says, firmly.

"I don't think I want to know," Principal Howard mutters. He drags Sheriff Stilinski off to one side, whispering furiously, and Stiles hovers on the spot, eyeballs warily a lipstick depiction of what one girl thinks his dick looks like. Apart from it being the size of his forearm, she's not too far wrong, actually. Stiles looks down at his own crotch, paranoid about the level of cover his pants provide. Maybe he has been accidentally flashing the entire population of Beacon Hills?

After a few minutes of heated whispering, wherein Stiles spends most of it either paranoid about his pants and being grateful for the hundredth time he didn't take Creepeter's bite (it really doesn't sound like a conversation he wants in on), the Principal hurries out of the girls' room, and the janitor scowls until Stiles and his dad leave too.

When they get out into the hallway, the Principal's leaning against the wall at a distance, pretending not to be watching them. He sucks at being covert. Maybe Stiles can get Derek to give him lessons on how to be a more efficient stalker. Except, Stiles can't even stop Derek from shoving him around, so there's that plan a bust.

Also, the hallway isn't even abandoned. Scott, Allison, Lydia, Danny and Isaac are all there, loitering around Scott's locker, not even pretending to be covert either. Derek really has no excuse not teaching his betas how to be efficient creepers; he should be ashamed.

Stiles looks back at his father, and goes for the denial option. This craziness will all be over soon, and if he pretends his friends aren't watching, well, it won't change a thing. But maybe it'll make this all a _survivable_ thing.  
It's sad that _surviving_ has become Stiles' baseline for a good day.

"So?" Stiles prompts.

" _So,_ I'm supposed to be giving you a lecture on appropriate behavior in public," Dad says, frowning sternly at Stiles. "I'd appreciate it if you act exasperated."  
"At this point in time," Stiles says, " _not an act_."

"You really haven't been flashing the girls?" Dad asks, looking a little strained. "You promise?"

"I _promise,_ " Stiles says, staring him in the face. "Can I go now? I have friends waiting for me."

"Sure," Dad says. "Just pretend I'm yelling at you for a few moments more."

"Fine. _Dad, that's seriously unfair. C'mon. Grounding me for three weeks? Are you kidding me? Oh, my god._ " Stiles adds some flailing, and the Principal turns off into his office and leaves them alone, apparently satisfied. "So why am I acting?"

His father shrugs. "Just, uh—"

The janitor slinks out of the girls' room, still giving Stiles the stinkeye.

"—telling you off firmly for giving the girls of Beacon Hills a _terrible_ , terrible—"

The janitor moves out of earshot.

" _—terribly_ awesome reputation."

Dad grabs him into a hug, pats his back, and pulls back to grin proudly at him. "You're definitely a Stilinski, my little man. My _big_ man. _Yeah._ " He pumps the air with one fist. Then he flails a little, and the gesture abruptly turns into him pretending to punch Stiles.

Stiles rolls his eyes and looks back to see the Principal eyeing them both suspiciously from his office doorway.

"I'll see you at home," Dad promises, and hurries away from Stiles, chuckling under his breath. "That's my _boy,_ " he mutters, grinning at Scott as he passes the group.

Stiles watches his dad walk away, and shakes his head. Man. There's got to be something wrong to this whole thing. It had been embarrassing enough dropping the condom in front of the whole class, though, so maybe that was the downside. And Stiles can enjoy the new school rumors and the solo changing room gym perk without anything else bad happening. _Yeah._ Stiles' luck this year is definitely changing.

"So," Lydia says, when Stiles draws near, "this is a turn up of events. _You_ got hot and interesting over summer. I got single. And the day I contemplate making a move, this happens." Lydia points at his crotch, not even bothering to be subtle. Stiles' mouth falls open. Scott tries to give him a subtle thumbs up, but Allison shoots him a glance, and Scott shoves his hand in his pockets. "I'm a small girl, Stilinski. You'd break me. It's a shame. I kinda thought we might even have something." She leans in and pats his shoulder. "I'm sure you'll make someone very happy though." Lydia kisses his cheek, grabs Allison, and the two sashay off down the hallway.

They're not even giggling.

That was a _serious_ brush-off.

Stiles lets out a moan, and hides his face in his hands. "Did she just—"

"Yup," Scott says.

"And she just—"

"Yup," Scott says.

"And if I got my dick out now to prove it?" Stiles manages.

"The Principal would get you escorted from the premises, they'd dig up all the files on you, and maybe find the security footage of the library and werewolves and we'd _all_ be screwed," Scott supplies.

"Great," Stiles says, and slumps against the lockers. He's exhausted. This whole thing is entirely traumatic. "I'm never getting laid when I'm in this school because my _cock is too big._ "

"Look at it this way," Scott says, philosophically. "The girls at school think you're a fertile catch. And it's not like anything _worse_ can happen than you get turned down by the girl of your dreams, right?"

"You do the best things to my mood," Stiles informs Scott. "The _best._ "

At least, Stiles thinks sadly, new-and-improved Scott is clever, and totally right, and—

—Stiles is going to kill Scott. _Kill Scott dead._

Because when Harris darts out of his classroom as they're leaving to give Stiles his homework back, and they find Harris' home number on an extra sheet on top with the message _call me_ , _I don't have a problem with the size of your endowment,_ Scott doesn't stop laughing for at least the next hour.

Worst friend _ever_.

He _deserves_ Stiles' sulking. So Stiles sulks all the way to the parking lot, and is prepared to sulk a lot more, until he realizes they're parting ways soon, and that Scott deserves to suffer a little.

"I really _don't_ have a big dick," Stiles says. "Maybe average. Nine inches is average, right?" He grins inanely, hops into his jeep, and leaves Scott spluttering in his dust.

And if Stiles, for his own fragile manly ego, has to blank out the fact that Isaac just shrugs and reacts as if nine is an acceptable answer, well... it's probably best no one finds out. Yep. That's Stiles' version of the story, and he's sticking to it.


End file.
